Homecoming
A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller
By Scott Langrel
Copyright©2012 by Scott Langrel
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, or by photocopying or recording, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or for the purposes of brief quotations for articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Geographical locations are used in a fictitious manner.
The Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Series:
Shadows in the Sand
Cold Chills
Dark Hollows
The Grass Monkey and Other Dark Tales
The Wolf Donovan Supernatural Thriller Series:
The Blight
Other Books By Scott Langrel:
Skewed: A Collection of Uneasy Tales
The Prior Earth Series
To be notified of future releases, please contact [email protected]
Author’s Note:
While Homecoming is a standalone novel, some characters’ back stories can be found in the short story collection, The Grass Monkey and Other Dark Tales, specifically in the title story The Grass Monkey and the novella The Otter King. The Grass Monkey and Other Dark Tales is available on most outlets as a free download.
To Mom and Dad, who did a really good job of raising me, considering what they had to work with.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Preview of Shadows in the Sand: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller
Preview of Cold Chills: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller
Prologue
If Alvin ever found the damn dog, he was going to kill it.
Well, probably not, since the sorry excuse for a canine had set him back three-hundred dollars, but the thought was appealing, nonetheless. It was well past lunch time, and Alvin was not a man known for missing meals. He had never been able to understand how some people could become so involved in an activity that they would skip a feeding. He’d worked with guys like that, back before he’d gotten his disability, and he had never trusted them. When the clock struck twelve, you dropped whatever you were doing and you went and ate your lunch. You had to have your priorities straight, and Alvin Hobbs figured his priorities were as straight as an arrow.
Hunting came in right below eating on Alvin’s list, particularly coon hunting. There was nothing finer than the sound of a hound baying as it treed its quarry. On the flip side, there was nothing more frustrating than losing a dog, which was the reason Alvin was trampling around on Drover Mountain instead of sitting down to a bowl of beans or a corned beef sandwich. Blue, his newest acquisition, had failed to return with the others when he’d called them in this morning, and so far he’d been unable to find the stupid mutt. But three-hundred dollars was a lot of money, and Alvin would be damned if he was going to lose the dog, especially after the grief Wanda had given him about spending that much money in the first place.
Alvin stopped and called for the dog. Silence answered him. He was dead tired; he’d been up most of the night hunting, and he had hoped to be home in bed by now. He had another hunt planned for tonight, but if he didn’t get any sleep, that would go out the window. Damn dog. Pete Fergouson had warned Alvin about buying dogs from Ol’ Walt, but he had gone and done it anyway. Now he was paying for it.
The noon sun was bright and warm, causing Alvin to consider shedding some of his clothing. He was dressed for a nighttime hunt, not for traipsing about in the middle of the day. But he didn’t want to be lugging stuff around with him; the terrain was steep and rocky here, and he was constantly slipping on the freshly-fallen leaves as he went. He’d left his gun locked in the truck for that very reason. He’d seen more than a few hunting accidents caused by people slipping and falling while holding a loaded gun. He had his .22 revolver on him, just in case he ran into a snake, but they generally weren’t much of a problem this time of year.
He began to walk again, wondering how far he should go before giving up. Further up the slope, a rabbit broke cover and made a mad, zigzagging dash across the next rise. Alvin watched it go, his hopes of finding Blue starting to diminish. Maybe it would be better to just turn back. There was a good chance that someone would find the dog and return him to Alvin. He knew most of the other hunters in the area, and they would all know whose dog Blue was if they happened upon him. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first dog he’d ever lost—though arguably the most expensive—and he was awfully hungry and sleepy.
He’d just made up his mind to return to the truck when he heard the sound of a treeing dog in the distance. It had to be Blue. Coon hunting was a nocturnal sport, and seeing as how it was the middle of the day, he was probably the only fool in these woods. Alvin’s heart lightened, and he even forgot his gnawing hunger for the moment. Wanda would never have to know how close he came to losing his investment, and that was a good thing, because she could really be a bitch when she set her mind to it.
He stood still and quiet as he tried to get a bearing on the direction of the dog’s barking. It wasn’t easy, because the sound echoed off the hills and seemed to come at him from all directions at once. But Alvin was an experienced hunter, and he was used to honing in on the sound of his dogs at night. He finally decided on east and set off at a brisk pace. There wasn’t much danger of the dog moving now that he had something treed, but Alvin wanted to get home. If he could eat and get in the bed within the next hour or so, he might be able to salvage the planned hunt tonight.
He came to a small stream, crossed it, and began to climb up a steep incline. He could have circled around the ridge, where the going was much easier, but it would have taken more time. Despite the fact that he was receiving a disability check for his back, Alvin could get around as well as anyone else, provided no one was watching. He didn’t feel guilty about it; he’d put in his time in the mines, nearly sixteen years, and he figured he’d paid enough dues to be able to sit back and enjoy life. There would be no black lung disease for Alvin Hobbs, no sitting around and coughing up his lungs like he’d seen a lot of the old-timers do. That was bullshit. If the government was willing to pay him eighteen-hundred dollars a month because he’d been able to get his doctor to say his back was shot, so be it. He’d paid his taxes when he was working. He was simply getting his own money back from Uncle Sam.
He topped the ridge, breathing heavily, and stopped again to listen. The barking was closer now, and he could pinpoint its direction with little difficulty. Five minutes, maybe ten, and he would have his dog and be on his way. Blue wasn’t likely to be loving life once Alvin got his hands on the mutt, but the dog had to learn. Alvin would be dipped in shit before he’d go through this after every hunt.
Suddenly, the dog let out a startled, shrill cry, and then fell silent. Alvin stopped, listening, but only silence greeted his ears. He called the dog’s name, but received no response. This couldn’t be good. What if a bear had snuck up on Blue while the dog’
s attention had been fixed on whatever he had treed? And here Alvin was, a five-shot .22 revolver and nothing else. His rifle was in the truck, but it was also a .22, no match for a bear. He had larger caliber guns at home, but that didn’t do him a heck of a lot of good right now.
He considered turning back, then dismissed the idea. It could have been a copperhead, in which case he needed to get to Blue as soon as possible. If it was a snakebite, he could probably get the dog out of the woods and to the vet in time to save it. He hurried in the direction he’d been going, wanting to cover ground quickly but also mindful of his surroundings, just in case it had been a bear or some other predator.
The bright October sun created sharp, distinct shadows, and more than once Alvin thought he saw something pacing him from the corner of his eye, only to turn and see nothing but the shadows of the trees. He scolded himself. Now was not the time to get a full-blown case of the willies. True, he was alone in the woods, but it was the middle of the freaking day, for crying out loud. How many times had he been in these same woods at night? Hundreds, maybe more. Nothing had ever jumped out and grabbed him, and nothing was going to now.
Just the same, he took the revolver out of his pocket and carried it in his hand.
After five minutes of brisk walking, Alvin stopped to rest and get his bearings. Blue had to be close; he was sure he’d come in the right direction. He tried calling again, and again got no response. Alvin began to rethink the snakebite scenario. If Blue was simply hurt, and not dead, he would at least whimper, letting Alvin know where he was. The continued silence seemed to suggest that the dog was incapable of responding. Alvin had a sudden and powerful urge to make tracks back to his truck, but he brushed it aside. More than the simple fact of the money he’d be out if he lost Blue, he was curious—he couldn’t just leave without finding out what had happened to the dog.
Something hit the ground near him. An acorn. Alvin looked up and saw movement in the trees above him. A squirrel, or possibly a bird. He gave another halfhearted call which garnered no response and started walking again. He was on edge. If Blue was dead, then something big must have gotten to him. He knew that most of the animals in the woods would not challenge a human, especially not in the broad daylight. A bear might, but only if was starving or had cubs nearby. Since it was fall instead of spring or early summer, there shouldn’t be any young cubs around, and the abundance of food in the forest made starvation unlikely.
A thought hit him then, and he stopped. A mountain lion. He’d read somewhere that their numbers had been on the rise in recent years. A mountain lion would definitely attack a dog, and just might attack a human. But if a big cat had pounced on Blue, the dog would have fought back, even if he had been taken by surprise. Alvin had heard no sounds of a struggle, only a single, loud yelp, then nothing.
Something hit him on the shoulder and he nearly screamed. Another fucking acorn. Again, there was a rustling in the treetops, and Alvin, on impulse, aimed his gun into the tangled mass of branches and colorful, dying leaves, and squeezed off a shot. The squirrel, or whatever it was, did not come tumbling to the ground, but the ruckus in the treetops ceased.
Alvin sighed. He might as well head back home and face the music. At least he could tell Wanda that something had gotten Blue, instead of having to report that the dumb dog had simply run off. She would still be mad, sure, but she could hardly blame him for it, at least. As bad as he hated to, he would probably put off hunting tonight as well. He would be too tired. And, though he wouldn’t admit it, the woods were still giving him the creeps, and he didn’t think he wanted to return in the dark. Not tonight.
He turned and started back the way he’d come, and another acorn hit him, with force, this time in the back. He whirled around. The nut had not simply fallen from a tree—it had been thrown. An acorn falling straight down wouldn’t have hit him where it did, and it wouldn’t have stung like that, either. Someone was playing around with him.
“Who’s there?” he called. No one answered. The thought occurred to him that one of his buddies might be screwing with him. Maybe someone had come across Blue and realized that Alvin would be close by. They might be hiding now, laughing at him, petting Blue to keep him quiet.
No, that wasn’t right. Alvin had heard the pain in the dog’s yelp. None of his buddies would have done that to another man’s hunting dog. If someone was out there, they must have taken care of Blue, and now they were after him. Alvin couldn’t even begin to imagine who might do such a thing, but if the nut had not fallen from a tree…
He was hit again, this time on the cheekbone, just under his left eye. He cried out in pain and surprise, and brought the gun up, waving it wildly. Despite the fact that the acorn had hit him head-on, he hadn’t been able to tell where it had come from. His eye began to water, blurring his vision.
“Don’t think I won’t put a bullet in you!” he yelled, and someone laughed. It sounded like a small child, shrill and high-pitched. What in the hell was a kid doing out in the middle of the woods? Alvin lowered his gun, not wanting to accidently shoot some rugrat.
He was miles from anywhere. It was hard to conceive any set of circumstances which would have put a small child alone in the woods on Drover Mountain, but Alvin supposed anything was possible. Drug use was rampant in the area, especially oxycodone, which the media had labeled hillbilly heroin. The papers were full of stories about kids being taken away from their druggie parents. Alvin himself had never had any use for pills, preferring hard liquor when the mood hit him, but he knew what the drugs did to people. So he guessed that it was possible that a child had wandered off, unnoticed by strung-out parents, and ended up out here in the middle of nowhere. Not likely, but possible.
“Hey,” he called. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Come on out where I can see you.” He tried to keep his voice pleasant and non-threatening, but he ended up sounding like some creepy pedophile. He scanned the trees, looking for any sign of movement. From behind a large oak, a small head peeked out briefly, then disappeared.
“Gotcha,” Alvin mumbled softly. He started toward the oak, walking slowly, not wanting to frighten the child. Maybe something good would come out of this messed-up day, after all. Surely someone was looking for the little monkey, and Alvin would be hailed as a hero when he came riding back into town with the kid in tow. Bob Lyle might be so impressed that he might look the other way the next time Alvin took a deer out of season or drove home from poker night with a bit of whiskey on his breath.
He reached the tree and stopped. There was an odor coming from somewhere; a foul, rotting smell that stung his nostrils. He looked around for the cause—a dead animal, maybe—but he didn’t see anything.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said gently. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you.” There was no response from behind the tree, but Alvin heard a slight noise, like the kid had shifted around. The poor thing was probably scared shitless. Alvin supposed he would be, too, if their roles were reversed. He peeked around the trunk of the tree.
The kid was there, all right, cowering. It looked like a boy, but it had its back to Alvin, so he couldn’t really tell. It was crouched on the ground in a kind of fetal position, with its head tucked down and its arms crossed over its knees. It was also buck naked, and its skin was caked with dirt and grime. Alvin realized that the awful smell was coming from the kid itself. He had a sudden, powerful burst of pity for the child, followed closely by utter contempt for the sorry excuse for parents who had let something like this happen to their kid.
“Hey there,” he said softly. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna get you out of…”
The child turned to look at him, and Alvin Hobbs screamed like a little baby. He dropped his gun and tried to back away, but his legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, his body convulsing with spasms of pure terror. There was nothing child-like about the thing’s features; in fact, there was little human about them at all. It stared at him with large, black, bulbous eyes. There w
as no nose, only two holes set into the face which might have been nostrils. Its mouth was large and lipless, and the skin around it was pulled back to expose teeth like shards of broken glass. It hissed at Alvin.
He stared back at the thing, horrified but scarcely able to comprehend what he was seeing. He tried to scream again, but found that he couldn’t; his throat felt totally closed off. He sensed movement around him and knew that others were approaching, but he was incapable of taking his eyes off of the thing before him. He was only remotely aware that he had pissed himself.
Something stung the back of his shoulder, and he realized that one of them was on him, its hideous mouth tearing through his jacket and into his flesh. His paralysis broke and he was up instantly, reaching awkwardly behind him as he tried to dislodge the creature from his back He grabbed something—an arm, maybe. The flesh felt leathery and dry. Alvin took off at a sprint, and the thing on his back either fell or jumped off.
He ran, eyes wide, fists pumping in front of him. The day no longer seemed bright and sunny—shadows moved at his side as he ran, and the sunlight cast a wicked glare on the forest. From behind him came the guttural shrieks of his pursuers. He raced down the steep slope he’d ascended earlier and had almost made it to the stream when one of the creatures darted between his legs, became tangled there, and sent him sprawling to the forest floor. He jumped up, or tried to, but in an instant they were on him, weighing him down, ripping at his clothing. He felt teeth as sharp as razors ripping into his legs. For some reason, he thought of Wanda, and was sorry that he’d thought of her as being a bitch earlier. She was a good woman, really, and he loved her and knew that he would miss her.
He wondered if she would miss him.
Chapter One
“I’m not going back in there,” Ron Seaver said, his expression stern. He was shaking his head for emphasis, and his lower lip jutted out defiantly. He looked like a little kid refusing to take a bath.
Homecoming (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Book 1) Page 1
